


Wildest dreams

by ylc



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Heartbreak, M/M, Pining, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, angsty, mentions John Watson/Mary Morstan, sort of break up I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Just because we know something is bound to happen, doesn't mean we're prepared for it when it actually happens.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. I had this idea forever ago; I LOVE Taylor Swift and I find a lot of her songs pretty inspiring (I have an entire destiel collection revolving around them, actually) but I had been valiantly resisting to write this. Mostly, because it’s angsty and while I always indulge in my love for angst, I prefer happy endings. But well, the idea wouldn’t leave alone, although I did resist for a long while and wrote 3 other fics in the meantime (and a lot of companion pieces!) but after finishing “Long shot” and with no other idea no keep my attention… well. Here we are.  
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings. Enjoy?

“We simply can not carry on like this.”

Sherlock isn’t sure if Watson is actually expecting an answer, but if he is, he’s thoroughly disappointed by the detective’s silence. He continues as he is, smoking quietly, staring outside the window. The weather is getting cold again and there are few people milling about, but of course the younger male isn’t paying attention to any of that.

“Holmes, did you hear me?” Watson demands after what feels like an eternity and Sherlock closes his eyes, telling himself not to snap at his friend. He had known it would come to this of course, he has always known. But he had thought- he had thought they would have more time.

_ More time,  _ he thinks bitterly. A lifetime wouldn’t be enough to get used to the idea of losing his companion, even if in his heart he had always known the day would come.

“Naturally, my dear chap,” he says dispassionately, still not turning to face his  _ friend,  _ not certain he’ll be able to keep himself under control if he does. He won’t beg, no matter what, he’s too proud for that. And even if he wasn’t, he does know that when Watson has made up his mind, there’s no changing it.

“So- you agree?”

“I don’t believe I should be agreeing to anything, my dear fellow,” he protests calmly, even if his heart is breaking into a million pieces. He mastered long ago the art of looking perfectly emotionless, no matter what. “Ms. Morstan, on the other hand-”

“Aren’t you- aren’t you going to say something?”

“Like what?” Sherlock scoffs, turning to him now, angry by Watson’s insistence on the subject. “Beg you not to marry? Beg you not to leave me? No, John, I won’t do any of that.”

“Sherlock-”

No, no. They shouldn’t be calling each other by their first names. That’s- intimate, something that he does not wish to pollute with the current anger, with his disappointment and hurt. “Let it be, Watson,” he pleads softly, once more turning his back at him. His friend sighs and Sherlock closes his eyes, telling himself not to cry. How he wishes he was the automaton Watson likes to make out of him in his stories, but-

“What- what will you do, once I leave?”

Guilt might keep Watson at his side, but while he might be selfish enough to try it, he doesn’t  _ want  _ that. If his John is to stay, he ought to do it by his own free will. “Nothing,” he replies simply, taking a long drag from his pipe. “I imagine things will go back to what they were.”

A long sigh and Sherlock tells himself sternly not to turn around. That would be unadvisable: he knows his limits and it won’t do to show any weakness right now.

“Alright then,” his friend says finally and he can hear him heading towards his own bedroom upstairs. Sherlock remains where he is, gaze fixed on the outside, desperately trying to keep his breathing steady and not to do something foolish.

He always knew this day would come.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive it, though.

* * *

 

It’s hard to pinpoint when  _ it  _ exactly started. If Sherlock must be honest with himself, he thinks it began that day at Bart’s, from the moment they were introduced. The  _ pull  _ he felt towards Watson was undeniable; while it’s true he had been looking for a flatshare out of pure necessity, the moment he laid his eyes on John Watson, it became something else entirely.

For a long while, he told himself that even entertaining such thoughts was madness, a certain way to lose his mind. He had known his whole life (or a good part of it) that his interest didn’t lay on the fair sex, but he had never pursued anything with someone of his same gender either: not because of the lack of opportunities, because while his personality might be far from charming, he could be intriguing and interesting when he wanted, but because he had figured it was better like this; by keeping himself detached from the world, from his body, its needs and the obnoxious  _ sentiment  _ that the brain’s chemicals reactions tended to produce, he believed he would be better off. Ruled by pure logic, he had thought himself perfectly happy and satisfied.

All it had taken were a pretty pair of eyes and some honest praise and he was completely gone. How pathetic, really.

In any case, he had been determined to keep his distance from the good doctor, turned fellow lodger, turned companion, turned friend. Of course it hadn’t worked and he can’t exactly say he regrets any of it, but-

Had things remained purely platonic between them, maybe he could have survived John’s- no,  _ Watson’s _ eventual marriage. But he had foolishly given into his impulses  _ once _ , had convinced himself there was really nothing to lose by letting go of his perfect control  _ once  _ and-

It had turned into around fifty four times. Not that Sherlock has been counting, not strictly, since he isn’t exactly sure what had counted and what hadn’t, but-

That’s unimportant. He had known John didn’t feel the same, that while he was a convenient partner for his friend, John was  _ everything  _ to him. And so he had known it would come to an end and that he would be left broken hearted and depressed and that he would never recover from it, but-

_ Better to have love and lost, than never loved at all.  _ Whoever had said that had obviously never lost, for there’s no way to describe his utter despair. He feels like lying on bed all day and never getting up again; to waste away quietly, to just close his eyes and never open them again.

Memories won’t be enough to sustain him, this he knows. But he also knows that’s all he’ll have now: memories of a time when he had stupidly indulged in the illusion of love, thinking that maybe- maybe-

_ We simply can not carry on like this,  _ John had said and Sherlock wonders if he knows just how his words had hurt him. If his friend had stabbed him on the heart it would have hurt far less and, more importantly, death would have been more swiftly.

But John doesn’t know, doesn’t understand or doesn’t care to. He has asked Sherlock to be the best man at his wedding, after all. How can he be so incredibly cruel? Sherlock always thought him so good, so fair-

And yet, this pain is fair, isn’t it? This is what he gets for daring to hope, for daring to dream, for being a sentimental fool. He should have known better. After everything, he should have known better.

He had thought there was nothing he wouldn’t do for John Watson. He was, evidently, mistaken. There are limits for everything, it seems and this is where he must draw the line or risk his own  annihilation .

“I’m sorry, my dear friend,” he says brokenly and hurries to clear his throat, hoping Watson won’t mention his embarrassing slip. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Watson stares at him, a slight frown on his face, looking upset and perhaps a tad guilty. “Sherlock-”

He can’t handle his pity, he  _ won’t  _ accept it.

And so he flees.

* * *

 

The wedding takes place. It’s a lovely ceremony, or so he’s told, for he can’t bring himself to show up at it. He stands outside the church, though, thinking of everything he ever wanted and yet, while he always knew he wouldn’t get it-

He couldn’t help to want it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> It’s very likely I’ll write another chapter eventually, because… well, as I said before, I prefer happy endings. Not sure when that’ll be though, so… it’ll depend of whether or not I get inspiration for working on a longer fic. Or if I get inspiration to turn this one into a long one. Huh. Now that’s an idea…  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please???  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I might write more of this… and of course I did. I’m so weak willed, really.  
> Anyway… enjoy?

A part of him, a small, petty,  _ hateful  _ part of him takes great joy at hearing Watson’s anguished cries as he searches for him at the Falls. It’s awful, he knows and it’s  _ wrong  _ to feel this way, but-

He takes great pleasure in knowing his  _ friend  _ does care for him, even if it’s not quite in the same fashion Sherlock does. After the wedding, he had been carefully avoiding any interaction with Watson, telling himself it was better if they didn’t see each other again: after all, Watson had his wife now and Sherlock had-

He had work to do.

Throwing himself into his work and attempting to destroy Moriarty’s criminal empire had helped him survive those seemingly endless months in which he feared for his sanity. His heartbreak was far more bearable when he had other things to distract himself, even if, a part of him, liked to remind him that Watson wouldn’t approve of his absolute neglect of his body’s needs.

But stopping to eat or sleep meant giving his mind the chance to wander into subjects not related with master criminals and therefore, it was something unadvisable to indulge in.

He had thought he was doing rather admirably and he had felt quite proud of himself, thinking he was over the worst part. Oh, what a fool he had been! How obvious his non existent experience with the matters of the heart had become then, when all it took for him to go back to square one of his  _ grief  _ was quick glimpse of Watson in the street.

Of course he had given into his longing then and had gone to visit. And then he had asked his  _ friend  _ to come with him on his mad journey, fearing he wouldn’t accept, terrified he would. It was sheer madness and not something he would have done had he been thinking clearly but-

People do all sort of crazy things when they’re in love.

He considers his options carefully, knowing he still has work to do and to go back to London now would be dangerous, not only for him, but for his friend. If he- if he lets everyone believe he’s dead though-

Something aches inside him at the thought, but he quickly shakes himself out of it. He needs to be practical, he needs to be  _ logical.  _ It’s not a matter of what he would want, it’s a matter of what needs to be done.

Oh, but the prospect is just so horrid! To leave London forever, never to see his friend again- he can’t bear the thought. Of course his work would keep him busy, at least for a while, but eventually- eventually it’ll be over and then what will happen to him?

The same that would have happened if this whole- thing with Moriarty hadn’t happened, he guesses. He will fade away, forgotten and alone, with no company but his dark and depressive thoughts. He thinks he might eventually succumb to an overdose and the idea doesn’t seem as hateful as it once did. Perhaps-

Perhaps it’s better like this. He was used to be on his own, it was foolish to attempt to change that, he should have known that loneliness was the only company he’d ever get; that and his great brain.

If he leaves like this, he’ll never be able to see John again, to talk to him and enjoy his company. But it’d be better this way, for it would spare him the pain of watching his friend eventually leave again, go back home to his wife and, at some point, his children. He thinks it might be selfish, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He needs to think of himself; of what’s best for him. He closes his eyes, willing his tears not to fall and takes a deep breath, before turning around and walking away, not allowing himself to turn back once, not allowing himself to answer his friend’s cries and pleads for him to show up.

It’s for the best.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

* * *

 

As he expected, the work eventually ends and so he finds himself with nothing to occupy his mind any longer. As he sits on his own at a park bench somewhere in Belgium, he wonders if he could go back to London now. He’s been so alone for so long that he’s beginning to reconsider his previous idea that a life without Watson was better than one with just stolen moments.

The pain in his chest never seems to recede, the wound just as deep as when his friend first announced his intention to marry. If anything, it seems the wound has festered, unattended and now Sherlock is fairly certain it’ll kill him soon.

The prospect should be scary, but it’s actually reassuring.

He sighs, leaning back on his seat and closes his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the memories. He recalls days full of happiness, when he had allowed himself to believe things could last. Days when he had gazed into John’s eyes and had foolishly indulged in the illusion that he could see his love reflected back. Days when, while locked in passionate embrace, he had thought nothing could ever tore them apart.

He abhors illogical behaviour, he hates people deceiving themselves, refusing to see the truth. But his feelings for John had clouded all logic and while there was always a voice in the back of his mind whispering he ought to be more careful, that he ought not to keep his heart on his sleeve-

Well. 

He has paid the price for his foolishness, of course, and he’ll continue paying it for the rest of the eternity, but he’s not certain he can carry on like this. He’ll never have  _ that  _ back, but he could have- he could settle-

Could he? Could he settle for crumbs of affection, of company? Loneliness is a bad counselor and he shouldn’t listen to his desperate longing, but-

He stands up, frustrated with himself. There’s still a couple of things that need to be handled before he can reconsider going back to London. Once everything has been taken care off, then he’ll start entertaining these silly notions once more.

Perhaps there’ll be no need for that, now that he thinks about it.

Not if Moran is really quite the treat he seems to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> It’s short, I know! But here’s the thing: I keep feeling this could turn into another long fic, but I’m torn on whether or not I want that. I’m already working on another fic that I’m not entirely sure when I’ll be posting, but that too promises to be a long one (at least as long as “Unexpected” and is, unsurprisingly, unilock) so I don’t know if I want the hassle of working on both at the same time. I have two other fics on progress, after all and I do know myself: one wrong step and I’ll end up abandoning them.   
> And the thing about this fic is that it has a more established historical setting. When it’s just pseudo historical… well, I make things up as I go, but with this one… I really don’t know. Besides, I feel it would need to be a bit more canon heavy and well, I don’t know if I’d be up for the challenge; It makes me really nervous. So I guess I could end this in just one more chapter (so they can be happy, because I just don’t do unhappy endings!) but well… I don’t know.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, of course I went and wrote the promised happy ending. I just don’t know how to do “unhappy” stories. I’m a romantic and a believer of happily ever after (even if experience shows otherwise) so… well. Not so sure how well the ending works, but… enjoy?

Coming back from the death can be a surprisingly uneventful matter. Of course his Watson fainted, but other than that, Sherlock is quite surprised at how easily things went back to normal. He had been hatefully relieved to learn of Mrs. Watson passing, but he naturally knew better than to say such a horrid thing out loud. He had liked Mary Morstan well enough, he supposes, but he must admit that when he thought of coming back to London, he had felt nothing but cold dread at the idea of coming back to share his Watson’s time with her.

It’s a selfish thought, of course, but Sherlock has never claimed not to be so. And now, thankfully, it doesn’t matter anymore. Watson is back to where he belongs, to Baker Street, sharing his loadings and his life (without having offered any resistance really), and so things are back to normal.

To the way they were always meant to be.

* * *

 

He tells himself he won’t be a fool this time around and that he’ll keep his inconvenient feelings to himself. Anything other than a regular friendship will do nothing but hurt him (again) and so he’s careful to keep his distance as much as he can. But of course he’s way too weak and the hold that Watson has over him certainly hasn’t decimated over the years and so-

“I can’t,” he murmurs, looking away, his body frozen, his breath coming in short and painful gasps. They’ve just come home from a most thrilling chase and so he’s not exactly surprised that with his blood running hot, Watson attempted to kiss him. He hadn’t been able to push him away, but the moment the other parted for breath, he forced himself to say something.

For a beat, there’s no other sound but their ragged breath filling the empty flat. He can feel his heart attempting to escape his chest and he feels lightheaded and his knees seem incapable of keeping him standing, but he attempts to keep his blank mask on and not acknowledge his breaking heart.

“Sherlock,” Watson whispers, still pinning him against the wall, one hand still on his waist, the other caressing the nape of his neck. “Please. I’m so sorry, I just-”

Sherlock can feel his knees giving up on him, but before he collapses on the floor and starts sobbing pathetically, he shoves the other man away with every last bit of strength he still has and flees to the safety of his room.

He knows that he’s being a coward, but he’s really in no state of mind to attempt to reason with his friend.

Not if he wants to keep resisting him, that is.

* * *

 

For the next few days, the air is filled with tension between them. Sherlock attempts to go through his normal routine, hoping Watson won’t address the matter ever again. He’s probably just lonely, missing company at night and Sherlock has once already been that company, so of course it seemed completely logical. Now however-

He can’t go through that again. He can’t fool himself into believing his Watson shares his feelings, not this time. He can’t be a  _ convenient _ bedmate, to be thrown away once a better option shows up. He wouldn’t survive it another time.

He can live with this, with just Watson’s friendship, with his company and attention. He knows it’s likely someone will appear to take his Watson away once more, but for now- for now it’s enough.

Besides, this time he’ll be better prepared.

Or at least he hopes so.

* * *

 

But his hopes get shattered when Watson corners him the following day on their own living room. He had been careful to never be on the other man’s presence while they are alone, always making sure there was someone else so the  _ uncomfortable  _ matter between them wouldn’t be addressed, but tonight-

It had been so  _ late _ . Having sleep most of the day away, he was feeling perfectly refreshed and had been considering working on a new experiment. He had thought Watson would be long asleep and so he had calmly exited his room, not expecting anyone to be around and so-

“We need to talk,” Watson tells him, pressing him against the wall and Sherlock has to stop himself from whimpering. He can feel his blood boiling and he has trouble getting enough air into his lungs, but he hurries to tell his silly heart to stop being so foolish.

His heart, as it usually does when John Watson is involved, refuses to obey.

“There’s nothing to say,” he murmurs, not daring to look at the other in the eye, keeping his tone low and disinterested. He attempts to push his friend away, but Watson stands his ground, gently pushing him against the wall once more.

Funny, how despite their height differences and Sherlock’s strength, he still can’t escape his companion. “Alright then,” he concedes finally, making a show of rolling his eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”

“The other night-”

“Nothing you should worry about, Watson. It was- a spur of the moment thing. I understand.”

“You clearly don’t,” the blond argues darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t- it wasn’t- granted, the adrenaline had something to do with it, but that’s not entirely-”

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupts sharply, feeling his heart shattering for the hundredth time. “You’re feeling lonely-”

“Damn it, Holmes!” he exclaims frustratedly, with such anger in his tone that Sherlock can’t help a small wince. “That was not it at all and you know it!”

The declaration fuels Sherlock’s own anger and he glares darkly at the other man. “Do I, now? I find your declaration contradicts what followed after our last…  _ rendezvous _ .”

Watson blushes to the tip of his ears, but he soldiers on. “You know that- I wasn’t- I didn’t mean-”

“Oh, you didn’t mean to marry? To leave me alone? To break my heart?!” Sherlock exclaims angrily, not caring one bit about the fact that he’s baring his soul, telling his deepest, most carefully guarded secret.

“What?” Watson’s voice is a broken murmur and that’s when Sherlock realizes the magnitude of his revelation. He bites down on his lip harshly, angry at himself and his weakness.

“Nothing,” he whispers, “nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“Holmes- Sherlock, you- you never said-”

Sherlock lets out a dry, unamused laugh. “Oh, and what should I have said? What would have made you stay?”

“If I had known- I didn’t- I thought- you never said! I thought you didn’t- I thought it was purely physical on your side!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Watson,” Sherlock chastises. “I’ve never been a man that lets his  _ biological urges  _ get the best of him. I only- I wanted-”

“But you never said anything!” Watson argues, throwing his arms up. “How was I to know what you  _ felt _ ? And then- when I told you I was marrying Mary, you simply- you didn’t- you  _ let me go.” _

“What was I to do?” Sherlock whispers dejectedly. “I couldn’t beg you to stay. I wouldn’t  _ force  _ you to stay. You wanted- you wanted a  _ normal  _ life, with a wife and children and I couldn’t- I couldn’t-”

“But Sherlock, I asked you-”

“You asked me what I was going to do once you moved out. How exactly does that imply that you wanted to know about my feelings for you?” Sherlock demands, angry and bitter. “Why would you care for them, in any case?”

“Because I love you, you abject fool! But I thought- I wasn’t sure you wanted- and so I figured it was better to stop with all that nonsense,” Watson says softly, not looking at him. “I thought that by marrying Mary I would be doing us both a favor. And Mary was- she was so sweet and understanding and she never- she never complained of my tendency to drop everything and go running after you so I thought- I thought it was the best I could do.”

Such a passionate declaration would have had Sherlock throwing himself at his friend’s arms in a heartbeat no so long ago. Now though- now, after all the heartbreak and the pain he has endured for the last few years- “I- I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to think.”

Watson nods morosely and moves away, leaving enough space between them so he’s no longer cornering Sherlock against the wall. “I understand. If you- if you don’t want to give us another chance-”

“It’s not that!” Sherlock exclaims immediately. “I just- Watson, are you sure? Because I don’t- I couldn’t live through another heartbreak. And this- this isn’t something we can simply pretend never happened…”

“Of course not,” Watson says passionately, taking Sherlock’s hand into his. “And I don’t expect that. But now that we both understand our hearts better… maybe we could- do you think we could-?”

Sherlock isn’t sure if they should, but he knows he must definitely wants to. God help him, despite it all, he wants to give it another try.

But when he looks at John’s hopeful smile and their lips meet once more, sliding against each other perfectly, as if time hadn’t passed at all, he knows he made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the feeling the last part might read a little… rushed. Hopefully it’s not too bad? I love angst, but I always struggle with writing the resolution; I’m always left with the feeling that it was far too rushed after all the drama that happened beforehand.  
> Let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out! Also, my knowledge of the Victorian Era isn't very good; it's mostly based on stories/movies I've read/seen that take place during the time. So any inaccuracies you find... I'm sorry! Please point them out too!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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